


You'll Be Surprised

by RosieBrookMeade



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M, Follows on immediately from end of season one, Minor Canonical Character as Original Character, OK Fine Eventual Explicit Stinger Sex And Lots Of It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Will eventually explore Eichhorst/Setrakian (b)romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:12:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieBrookMeade/pseuds/RosieBrookMeade
Summary: Sandra Edwards’ fun-packed months with Eichhorst in the winter of 1989-90 have yet to be fully documented.Until now…Seriously though, how much fun can you have with an undead Nazi who has no man-junk?You’ll be surprised…(Even if you’ve read the Captives scenes!)This is “the whole weird Sandra/Eichhorst whatever the hell it is” that runs through the Another Season series, but turned into a romance as per some advice I received. Sex now guaranteed if there’s sufficient interest.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_For every pit bull in a knit sweater, there must be someone who knows him well enough to see that he feels the cold keenly through his deceptively thin coat, who loves the scarred old mutt enough to make or buy the woolly jumper and who is bold enough to thread the garment over those bear trap jaws. Similarly, the vicious beast must be prepared to endure the attentions of the caregiver and suspend savaging endeavours long enough to receive this gift with weary hauteur. Perhaps he would even bow his massive head to facilitate the process. Maybe even obey the timorous “Gimme paw-paw” command so the sleeves can be placed. Possibly, he would comply readily enough to be deemed a “Good boy” and have his ragged ears tickled._

_Ah, the proud, mighty beast and the timid, gentle lover who tamed him._

_But this is not the story of that relationship. This is something completely different and much less edifying._

_It’s still not too late to turn back, you know…_

* * *

Eichhorst's Living Area, Stoneheart Building, Manhattan – The morning after the Battle at Bolivar’s

Thomas Eichhorst sat in the living area of his splendid apartment opposite an enormous television screen showing the news. He was regrouping after a difficult few days. Suited and made up to appear human, the vampire was getting a manicure from a handsome young man in a faceguard, wielding something like a miniature angle grinder. The beauty of Eichhorst’s attendant wasn’t a sexually-motivated choice but a simple luxury – Eichhorst liked to surround himself with decorative things and the boy was nothing more than an ornament. Michael was the young man’s name, he seemed to recall.

Eichhorst had a good memory for names.

Numbers, too, for that matter. And there was one number he would never be able to forget.

He scowled into a mirror as he touched two healing wounds on his cheek. While A230385 hadn’t directly given him those, the ultimate blame lay firmly with the old Jew, and so did Eichhorst’s lust for revenge.

Abraham Setrakian…oh yes, he knew his name too, although he never used it aloud, only murmuring it softly when he was alone. The old pawnbroker had made Eichhorst look foolish time after time and his Master had begun to lose faith in him. Obviously, he would regain his place in his Führer’s trust soon by dealing with his former pet personally. He amused himself during the manicure by fantasising about the different forms his retribution could take.

While Eichhorst obsessed about Setrakian, he completely disregarded another figure from his past. One whose motives concerning him were much less clear. Someone who was potentially even more dangerous than his old adversary.

The manicurist’s grinder whined away occluding most of the audio of the report on the bizarre death of the unpopular and incompetent New York mayor, J. Robert Gomez, and the resultant power vacuum due to the disappearance of other key officials. Once Eichhorst’s human façade was completely restored, he and Eldritch Palmer would fill that vacuum with a sympathiser of the Master’s cause. And if one could not be readily found, he would make one.

The broadcast continued to show the unrest around the city following the collapse of vital infrastructure and services.

Michael finished his work in time for the newsreader’s apparently innocuous concluding remarks to be clearly heard.

'And finally, our CEO personally requested we put out a bulletin asking this well-groomed man to come forward for an interview feature we want to commission.'

Suddenly, a still image of Eichhorst’s head and shoulders as he left Stoneheart to attack the pawnshop filled the screen. He was the only one shown; his subordinates who definitively did not share his human appearance were not visible. Why? They must have footage of the other vampires. Why not show their white, bald heads and pointy ears and teeth?

The newscaster continued, 'He has been pictured fighting off a sword attack from a crazy old man...'

Now the television showed some video of Eichhorst evading Setrakian's sword swing at Grand Central Station. The quality was much better than you would usually expect from CCTV, although the image of Setrakian's face was blurred and there was no audio.

In fact, none of the clips had any audio, and the footage of Eichhorst in action was quite extensive, although the TV company had stopped short of exposing him as anything other than a sharp-suited crime fighter.

The broadcast went on. ‘Here he is dispersing a group of youths causing a disturbance behind The Yummy Dragon Chinese restaurant in Harlem.'

The next video was of Eichhorst approaching Gus Elizalde to retrieve the Master's coffin from the airport. Gus' face was distorted like Setrakian’s, but everyone else was seen clearly.

'…and even repelling an attack by two gang bangers…'

Finally, some video of Eichhorst in the sewers beneath Manhattan was shown. He watched himself being punched by Gus, who was blurry again, and disarming Felix, whose image was clearly shown.

The report concluded, 'With all this craziness in New York we  _really_  need a hero and, of course,' the newscaster said archly, 'there is an opening in City Hall.'

'So, if anyone out there knows, or has seen Well Dressed Man…'

Eichhorst's smiling face again filled the screen with “WANTED The Well Dressed Man” underneath and a solitary landline number, rather than the usual text and mobile numbers and email, Facebook and Twitter addresses. The presenter read the phone number out with the comment, '…Or if the man himself isn't too shy to come forward, please give us a call on this number: 1-800-WELL-DRESSED.'

Michael finished his work and removed the face protector. With the nail-grinder silent, he could hear the television. Curiosity made him twist around on his haunches to see what the news company was allowed to report. He watched the Well Dressed Man appeal for a second or two and, pointedly not looking at his client, began packing away his equipment.

Michael wasn’t stupid, he knew that the Stoneheart Corporation was somehow involved in the unrest and disappearances currently plaguing New York. He also knew that the slightly-built older gentleman whose grooming needs he had been meeting for the past few weeks was not a gentleman at all. His boyfriend had heard something about a late night broadcast by that rogue CDC doctor and Michael believed that Mr Eichhorst was exactly like that poor creature the doctor had been dissecting. He wished he’d asked Raoul for more details at the time but he hadn’t returned from his night shift this morning and now Michael feared the worst.

It was a masterstroke on Stoneheart’s part to ally themselves with FinchTV, he thought. Everyone believed Finch – impartial, unimpeachably truthful and always resolutely challenging the establishment’s spin. He wondered briefly what Stoneheart could have done or said to buy Finch’s compliance. Mostly he wondered if there were a reward for any information on the Well Dressed Man.

The Well Dressed Man himself just stared at the screen. It was impossible for Michael to tell if he was concerned about exposure or if his vanity had been massaged by the publicity. Perhaps, he had actively courted it. Or perhaps this was Finch’s way of covertly rebelling. He longed to know what effect the broadcast had had on his client but the unpalatable truth was that he was terrified of him. Despite being young and strong, Michael felt intimidated by the aura of suppressed power the smaller man exuded.

The silence grew painful and there was still no movement from Eichhorst. Finally, Michael was unable to resist a glance up at him any longer. He raised his eyes for a moment and they met Eichhorst's looking down.

Oh God! He knows! The conviction that Eichhorst could read his mind hit him like a weight and the urge to flee overwhelmed him. He stood up as slowly and steadily as he could. Eichhorst’s unblinking gaze followed him as he straightened and walked quickly to the door. His shoulders relaxed as he turned the handle but it was too soon.

'Wait,' said Eichhorst.

Michael turned helplessly into a face full of edges.

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandra watches a video of Eichhorst's greatest hits.

Midtown Manhattan – Present Day

In an immaculate windowless office across town, a stunning blonde sat surrounded by banks of TV screens showing various news channels around the world. The only human touch was a digital photo frame on her desk currently showing a smiling blonde girl about five years old.

The woman was wearing a beautifully tailored trouser suit over a polo necked blouse. A silver-coloured metal locket rested on the silk over her throat. White gloves completed the picture of fastidious elegance.

She was rewinding, fast-forwarding, pausing and generally scrutinising the film of Well Dressed Man. Unlike the public broadcast, she had access to uncut footage with full audio recording.   

Sandra Edwards was the only creature on the face of the planet who would cheerfully have swapped places with Michael right then. She was desperate to know how Eichhorst had reacted to seeing his face all over the news. Had he got it? Understood the reference? Did he suspect her involvement? He would be bound to investigate, to follow up his suspicions, but she had taken precautions. Was he as conflicted as she was about a possible renewal of the… acquaintance?

Nothing she’d experienced and no one she’d encountered in all the years since Eichhorst had ever matched up. Childbirth had hardly been as frightening or as painful and no love had ever had the depth or intensity of the hatred she felt for him.

God, how she’d missed him.

The truth was that Sandra embraced what Professor Setrakian could not accept - that when a monster had you at his mercy and showed you even a little kindness, you were his. Forever.

But she was a monster too, now. And she was going to be _really_ kind to him. She was going to give Eichhorst the gift he would never admit to wanting.

She leant forward and focussed her attention on a surprisingly clear video recording of Eichhorst’s interview with Setrakian in the police station.  Sandra didn’t see a face full of edges but one sculpted by a genius at the height of their powers. She smiled delightedly as Eichhorst contorted his perfect Aryan features into a Hogarthian image of evil.

‘Thomas Eichhorst,’ she purred, softening the sharp syllables into something like a poem… or a prayer. If there were any justice, someone who looked like her would have a voice like a cat fight. Instead, it was low and pleasant despite the clipped tones of a crisp English accent.

Setrakian’s face, beard bristling with impotent fury, was plainly visible in this footage. There had been no need to obscure him in any way because it was edited out of the final broadcast. It hadn’t fit with the narrative of a suited folk hero fighting crime on the mean streets of New York City.

‘But you were not there to help her,’ said Eichhorst silkily. ‘Do you feel great regret?’

Sandra tilted her head back, thinking bitterly of the time when she _was_ there to help Corey but didn’t. Not that she could have done anything to protect him from Eichhorst and he had begged her to flee, to save herself and their unborn child. She closed her eyes and drifted into a trance of shame and resentment for a moment.

‘You let me go,’ she whispered reproachfully at the ceiling.

She shook her head and recovered her composure. She would not be a victim. Not ever. Not even in her own mind. He had enabled her escape and that was a good thing.

She flicked over to footage of the strigoi squad heading to Setrakian’s pawnshop, and zoomed in on Eichhorst’s face. He was smiling in anticipation of a triumph that had not come. She bit the end of a glove-finger and eased it off. It was an unnecessarily sensual movement for someone on her own.

Ignoring the unnatural faces of the undisguised vampires, she touched Eichhorst’s image as if it were the original himself beneath her trembling fingers. ‘Have you put weight on? Is the hunting good for you in the Master’s city?’ she breathed. ‘It suits you. Makes you look younger.’

Next for her perusal was the scene beneath Stoneheart as he confronted Gus and Felix.  This segment was prepared for transmission, so Gus’ face was blurred throughout. Sandra paused and zoomed into a shot where a lock of silver hair had fallen over Eichhorst’s forehead. She tenderly traced the outlines of his face, a strange wistful smile, almost of adoration, playing on her lips. She made a little movement across his forehead, as if trying to brush the dislodged strands of hair back into place and then fast-forwarded to a particular piece of dialogue that she viewed again and again.

‘What I find fascinating,’ mused the on-screen Eichhorst, ‘is that love is considered a gift, a blessing, with no acceptance to the fact that it also binds, and chokes, and strangles.’

‘Who was she, Eichhorst?’ Sandra whispered. ‘Who damaged you so badly to make you choose this way?’

Perhaps it hadn’t been the girl in the peasant dress. She knew it wasn’t Helga or any of the others he’d dressed her up as - girls without names or stories. Perhaps it wasn’t a "she" at all?

She switched to the video of the confrontation between Eichhorst and Professor Setrakian at Grand Central Station.

‘You haven’t stopped obsessing about _him_ have you?’ she muttered, with a sullen hint of jealousy.

How had she come to this? Jealous of a ninety-year-old man? Wanting someone she _could not_ have? She’d wanted plenty of men she _ought_ not to have and she tended to just bash on in and have them anyway. But Eichhorst…? She’d never wanted anyone before or since who didn’t desire her in return and she knew that, as a vampire, he was biologically incapable of reciprocating.

Her tablet chirping derailed her thoughts and she swivelled round to pick it up.  Eldritch Palmer had sent an email. He was such a sweetie. If she had even a fragment of humanity left, she should have been sorry to involve him. She smiled and dashed off a reply before returning to her Eichhorst-centric reverie.

At least she’d managed to work out his pattern and to manipulate it, to train him in a way…

A really grubby smile curled the corners of her mouth as her mind wandered back to Berlin.

* * *

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eichhorst gets his ears done and runs a bath.

Back at Eichhorst’s Pad...

‘Wait,’ said Eichhorst.

Michael looked helplessly into the vampire’s face.

Would Michael agree with Sandra that it was chiselled? Certainly. By a genius? Possibly. But a genius in a very odd mood! One who’d approached a brief for perfect male beauty in the Nordic style only after he’d rowed with the wife or trodden on an upturned plug.

The sculptor had taken too much out of the cheeks and the jawline could crack rocks. No curves softened the hardness of expression and Michael knew that the mind behind it would be just as sharp and cruel as the exterior. He realised with a jolt that this would be the last face he ever saw.

The face tried to smile reassuringly, but there were too many teeth.

‘You haven’t trimmed my ears yet,’ said Eichhorst.

Michael’s sigh of relief was audible.

As Eichhorst led the way into his dressing room and took a seat opposite the mirror, Michael briefly reconsidered an escape attempt. He knew the vampire was too fast though, and maybe, if he played nice and did as he was told, he could get out of the Stoneheart building and into the sun. And never spend another night in New York again. Maybe…

Eichhorst removed his prosthetic ears. The points on his real, vampiric ears were growing back rapidly and they needed to be a more rounded human shape for the prosthetics  to fit. He unlocked a drawer on his dressing table and handed Michael the shears.

Michael knew that the blades were edged with a special metal that cauterised the wounds and delayed regrowth. He set his jaw in a grimace of resolve. He hated this part of the job. The cartilaginous crunch reminded him of teenage summers ear-notching the piglets back home.

It might have been better if his client had squealed like the baby swine but he kept silent, his body rigid with the strain of maintaining his dignity, his own jaw clenched, less against the pain of cutting than the burn of the silver-edged blades. The white flesh sizzled between the shears, emitting a foul-smelling smoke.

Michael willed himself not to gag. And then it was over at last, both of them sighing with released tension.

He hesitated to surrender the shears into the outstretched hand. He knew these were the only things in the apartment that could hurt his client. There was another taut silence before Eichhorst distracted him with a question that Michael could never have anticipated.

‘Do you believe I am a hero?’

Michael thought that he’d believe anything his client wanted for a chance of getting out of that apartment alive and human, shears or no shears.

Eichhorst sighed. He could see it in the boy’s eyes - so clearly it might have been a thought bubble in a comic book. He wasn’t particularly empathic, he’d just seen it so many times before. Only two of his captives had ever spoken their mind and only one of them had done so unprompted.

Yes, he remembered sourly, unprompted, impudently and without ceasing. That reminded him…

‘I did save a human life once,’ Eichhorst mused, making Michael goggle at him. Was he trying to make a connection? Now, after six weeks of brisk taciturnity? He didn’t know how to respond, but his client didn’t seem to need an answer.

‘Although I’m not sure it was a life worth saving,’ Eichhorst finished, retrieving the silver-edged scissors from the manicurist’s flaccid hands. He locked them safely away to cover his own confusion.

What had suddenly brought _her_ to mind, after all this time? Eichhorst wondered. His thoughts had been so full of the Jew and this last great thrust of the Master’s campaign, that he hadn’t had room for anyone else. Why _her_? Why that…that creature? And why now? What had jogged those particular memories?

He paced the room for a bit, retracing his thoughts along with his steps. Michael took advantage of the distraction to sidle towards the door.

He’d nearly made it for a second time but, out of nowhere, Eichhorst was suddenly between him and safety, and far too close to him. Michael took a pace backwards to restore his personal space.

The move distracted Eichhorst again. That was another thing about Sandra Edwards, _she_ had closed the gap when it should always be him. The old Jew never stepped back either. He was the only other person unafraid of him but the girl had stepped _in_. And she’d turned her back on him. In fact, the very first time she’d spoken to him, the little louse had turned away from him. No one did that to him unless they were running away.

Eichhorst stepped forwards again, reassuring himself that Michael was reacting normally. The boy scampered backwards and tripped over a stool. As he reached back to break his fall, he landed on the remote making the television rewind to the Well Dressed Man appeal.

Eichhorst pounced like a leopard, pinning Michael to the floor by the wrists and straddling his body just as the television announced, ‘…well-groomed man to come forward for an interview feature…’

Eichhorst froze and stared at it again. ‘Of course. An interview…’ he whispered. ‘…with the vampire.’ He smiled absently but there was a trace of concern behind it.

A feeble struggle from the man beneath him brought him back to the now. Eichhorst smiled at him.

‘I am sorry, Michael,’ he said gently. ‘I would have liked to make you last.’

He meant it, too, but now he had a pressing need to examine the sewers where he’d confronted Gus and Felix. Her? Here, in New York? Now? With all the other challenges facing him, he needed this complication like a silver enema.

He got to his feet and allowed the boy to stand, before he lifted him over his shoulder and carried him, struggling like a landed eel, to the bathroom.

Eichhorst pitched him backwards over the edge of his bath, so far that the boy’s eyes were beneath the surface of the blood that partially filled it. Michael was thrashing about, terrified and incoherent, but Eichhorst didn’t want to push him under and let him drown, not until every last drop of Aryan blood had been harvested.

Eichhorst stroked his thumbnail expertly down Michael’s jugular groove from his collarbone to the angle of his jaw, incising the skin and pushing the crimson muscles and the bluish jugular vein aside in one smooth movement.   
  
His nails were always slightly blunter after a manicure but with enough force they still functioned as scalpels. He watched the white carotid bounding with the boy’s fear.  
  
Eichhorst withdrew his hand and licked his fingers. With the pressure on his neck temporarily released, Michael was able to raise his head and scream.  
  
Eichhorst stared impassively into the panic-filled blue eyes for a moment as the boy flailed about in agonal terror. He was making too much noise, with all the yelling and his arms and legs banging into the wall of the bath. The bathroom wasn’t as well soundproofed as the purpose-built feeding room.

Eichhorst reinserted his hand and transected the boy’s trachea just beneath the larynx. The breath puffed in and out from the severed end of the windpipe and the proximity of the now-isolated larynx meant that some noise still escaped. Eichhorst pulled the cranial end of the trachea out of Michael’s neck with a nasty gristly sound. He could still breathe, although the sensation of his windpipe flapping about loose caused another paroxysm of horror. Eichhorst curtailed it by slitting the carotid artery down the whole of its exposed length. Michael pumped himself empty in a few gorily spectacular seconds and was dead before he finished twitching.

Eichhorst watched the scarlet liquid spurting into his bath and was reminded again of Sandra, this time the exquisite flavour of her blood. He wondered how she tasted now. Had she soured with age? Or matured like a fine wine?

He massaged the end of his stinger until he ejaculated a quantity of anticoagulant “saliva” into his bloodbath. The action reminded him of some of her more exotic suggestions. He shook his head at the memories of the dreadful creature but there was the shade of a smile there too.

Any other man would have dwelt on Sandra’s Disney-princess beauty and golden brown voice but to Eichhorst she was nothing more than the most aggravating and importunate individual he’d ever had the misfortune to find delicious.

Still, he’d managed to train her eventually. After a fashion.

* * *

 


End file.
